Part 11 (2/2)
Get off it, kiddo, she told herself. A h.e.l.l of a time to worry about becoming an old maid. You should live so long.
The singer finished his song, and Scott handed him a dollar.
”Gracias,” the man said. With a slight bow, he turned away.
”Are you all right?” Scott asked.
”Just beweeping my outcast state.”
Scott raised an eyebrow. ”Troubling deaf heaven with your bootless cries?”
Lacey grinned. ”Yup.”
The waitress set down plates in front of them. They had both ordered Dinner #6: a chimichanga, refried beans, rice, and a taco. Lacey took a deep breath of the steam rising from her meal. Her mouth watered.
”Plates are hot,” warned the waitress. ”Will there be anything else for you?”
”Want a beer?” Scott asked.
”I'll stick with margaritas.”
”That'll be it for now,” he told the waitress, and she left.
Across the candle lit room, the singer began ”The Rose of San Antone” for two lean men in business suits. One of them saw Lacey watching. He met her gaze, looked her over, then turned away and spoke to his friend. The other man glanced at her. She looked away, embarra.s.sed, certain they were wondering about her appearance. In her plaid blouse and corduroys, she felt shabby: all right for McDonald's, but barely good enough for a restaurant of Carmen's quality.
She should've found time to buy a dress. When Scott escorted her back to her suite that afternoon, though, he gave her strict orders not to leave it without calling him. She hadn't wanted to drag him around Tucson in search of eve ning wear, so she'd simply stayed in her room until he picked her up for dinner. Now, she regretted it.
She swallowed a mouthful of rice, and said, ”What's next?”
”Find a good piano bar...”
”I mean, tomorrow and the next day and the day after that.”
”Depends on you.”
”Are we just going to wait? I mean, I could stay at the hotel for two weeks, as I planned, and nothing happen, and the minute I step in to my house back in Oasis, wham.”
”You think he's at your house?”
”He could be anywhere: in my house, at the hotel, even here. He might even be dead, but I think that's too good to hope for.”
”So you don't want to wait around? You'd rather go on the offensive? Good. That's just what Charlie Dane would suggest.”
”Are you willing?” she asked.
”I was planning to suggest it, myself.”
She cut into the chimichanga with her fork, and scooped a bite into her mouth. The fried tortilla crunched. She chewed slowly, savoring its spicy meat and cheese.
”So tomorrow, we'll go to your house.”
”That'd be great.” Lacey took another bite. Then she picked up her handbag and set it on her lap. She opened it. She took out the can.
”What's that, paint?”
”There's something you have to know. You may decide I'm crazy and call the whole thing off, but I have to tell you the truth. This afternoon, when I explained the whole situation to you, I left something out. It's why I have this paint. I told you the man was wearing a mask. That's my story for public consumption, but it's not quite the truth. I told the truth to the police and my editor, and they didn't believe me. I don't really expect you to believe me, either. But here goes. The man who killed Elsie Hoffman and Red Peterson, the man who attacked me-he's invisible.”
Scott stared at his plate. He forked a huge bite of chimichanga into his mouth, and chewed slowly, frowning. He swallowed. He finished his margarita and refilled the gla.s.s and took another sip. ”Invisible?” he asked, as if he thought he'd misunderstood.
”Not a ghost or apparition or hallucination,” Lacey said. ”It's a man. But you can look right at him and see right through him and never know he's even there. He's invisible.”
”How?” Scott asked.
”He didn't tell me. 'A little miracle, ' he said.”
”A miracle, all right.”
”That's what the paint is for. It'll adhere to him, and he won't be invisible again till he gets it off his skin.”
”Invisible,” Scott said, shaking his head.
”Do you believe me?”
”Let me put it this way: we'll proceed as if I do. h.e.l.l, if it's true, I might get a whizz-bang story out of this. Another Amityville Horror. Who knows?”
Back at the hotel, Scott drew a Colt.45 automatic from the shoulder holster under his sport coat.
They searched Lacey's suite, walking behind chairs, feeling inside closets and under the beds, stepping into the shower stall. At last, Scott sighed and sat on the couch. ”If the guy's invisible,” he said, ”there's no way we can be sure he isn't here.”
”He hasn't attacked,” Lacey said.
”Maybe he's waiting for me to leave. So I guess I'd better stay.” He patted the couch. ”This'll do fine.”
”You're really going to stay?”
”I can't do much protecting from the end of the hall.”
”Well, I guess it's all right. I won't let you sleep on the couch, though, with two beds in the other room.”
”You sure?”
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